


Lord of Appleton against the Mountain

by gwmclintock88



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Guild Wars
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Guild Wars 2 - Sylvari, Spoilers, Trial by Combat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5158571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwmclintock88/pseuds/gwmclintock88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrion has spent most of his life defending his life, his people, his town, Appleton. Usually other people step up and fight for him, like his Knight of the Apples. But there wasn't much choice for this battle, not when you've been accused of killing the king (even if the brat deserved it). </p>
<p>At least they let him keep his bag of surprises and apples.</p>
<p>(A Song of Fire and Ice and Guild Wars 2 fusion)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord of Appleton against the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'll be upfront about it: ASOFAI Canonical references to violence and rape exist in this story. The rape is not explicit and happens off scene. I have marked these as warnings per AO3's tags, and chosen not to add them as additional tags. If these things bother you, please do not read. 
> 
> Now, onto other things.
> 
> This is a fusion and a one-shot in a possible universe. I may add more to it, expand the story later, but for now, focuses on Tyrion's perspective of some GW2 elements.

            Tyrion’s hands shook as he watched the Mountain enter the arena. Today, today decided his fate. Would he had chosen another to fight in his stead, maybe things would be different. Maybe instead of this fool-hearted plan of his another would strike down the Mountain. Or he would be struck down instead.

The crowd cheered, applauding the violence about to occur. Smallfolk overly enjoyed the nobles fighting amongst themselves – especially if it didn’t involve them. They cared little for their now-dead King, his nephew Joffrey the Queen Regent and his own father suspected him of killing. The sham of a trial only shed further light onto their beliefs. Little was afforded to his defense, and the King’s own blasphemous and reprehensible behavior swept aside by Tyrion’s love for wine and whores. Yes, his sins came back to haunt him, but those sins did not include the murder of his nephew, despite the cunt richly deserving it.

Tyrion spun the apple in his hand, the red skin slick with his sweat. Raising it, he bit into the flesh, the juices spilling out. As he chewed, he listened to the sept drone on. Such a ceremony for two men trying to kill each. He caught his father’s eye, the dead glare trying to kill him before this farce even started. His sister held a similar look, though the smugness was a nice touch. Jamie, the only family who cared for him, at least looked scared and a little ashamed of the fight that would shortly begin.

He caught Ser Dusza Sand and Ser Jon Snow standing on the dais as well. Ser Dusza served him for nearly four years now, guiding him to become a lord worthy of the smallfolk he guarded. Even King Joffrey’s abuse failed to dissuade her from fighting for him, abuse Dusza took on in favor of saving Lady Sansa, his now-vanished wife.

Jon Snow came to him as a squire, a favor from the late Lord Eddard Stark. The boy served him through his father’s ‘traitorous’ actions, actions Tyrion privately applauded given his ruthless family. He held ward over Ice, the greatsword of the Starks, despite the objections of Cersei, Tywin, and Joffrey, but Tyrion traded away enough gold to secure it. Jon never welded it, instead holding it safe for Sansa, his sister. Besides, Jon preferred a longsword and an axe, fighting alongside his direwolf, Ghost. The two fought with him, though admittedly, Tyrion avoided fighting against the King of the North (before his father’s underhanded decimation of Jon’s family at the Red Wedding).  He had no place in the war, and it managed to keep Jon’s head on his shoulders. They both bent the knee, but not before Jon vowed that he would have revenge for his family, revenge Tyrion would have willingly assisted with.

But today’s results were not from his mechanism. Someone else played the Game of Thrones, and their game brought him to what could be a quick separation of his head from his shoulders.

The Mountain stood several yards away and swung a sword longer than Tyrion was tall. His leathers would not hold against the weapon, nor would the shield in all likelihood. All that left him was his bag of apples and the surprise tucked into his belt. Hefting his shield with one hand, Tyrion dropped the apple core to the ground. Time to take this show and make it his own.

“Is that your weapon of choice?” His voice rang out, silencing the smallfolk and nobles alike. The Mountain must have glared, but underneath the armor, who could tell?  “By the Gods, your stench would knock over a lesser man!”

A roar of laughter filled the arena, and Tyrion caught the smirks of those around him. Well, most people were laughing, Cersei and Tywin doubled their efforts to mentally strike him down. Ser Gregor snarled at him, glaring through the slits in his helm.

The High Sept finished their rituals and words. Tywin stood from his seat, and once again a silence fell over the crowd. “Does the accused wish to change his plea?”

Tyrion returned his father’s glare. “No.” What other words were needed? Tywin sat back down in his seat, finally looking away. For once, Tyrion won a silent battle with his father.

“Begin.”

The words rang out through the arena. Tyrion reached into his bag, grabbing two bulging apples. “Mountain, a little snack before you kill me.” He tossed the apples toward the man. Instinctively, Ser Gregor did what any may did when thrown a fruit: He tried to catch it. From there, Tyrion’s plan changed dramatically.

His plan was simple: The Lord of Apples knew of the chemistry necessary to achieve what few could. Using that chemistry, he planned to weaken Ser Gregor enough to strike him down. The apples played a vital role, as their cores had been filled with two chemicals when combined result in a nasty, and quick frankly, devastating explosion.

            Tyrion expected Ser Gregor to slice the apples in two, the liquids combining along the Mountain’s sword and decimating his ability to use it. From there, a few more apple-explosives and maybe, just maybe he’d come out of this with his head intact.

            The Gods rolled the die it seemed.

            Gregor’s giant mitt of a hand crushed the apples, and for a brief moment, time froze as Tyrion saw his plan fade to nothing and his death approach on the horizon. The moment passed as the gauntlet-crushed apples unleashed their load.

            A deafening roar filled the arena followed quickly by screams of anguish and fear. Smallfolk covered their ears and ducked from the spray of mangled flesh and shrapnel. Tyrion hid behind his own shield for a moment, though it did nothing to stop the force of the blast from tumbling against the stone floor. He dropped his shield, the weight nearly crushing him. He struggled to his feet, quickly to prevent Gregor from taking advantage of his fumbling. His ears rang and his sight swiveled, but he could see the truth well enough before him.

            Gregor’s knees crushed the stone beneath his weight. His left hand was no more, the sword lay forgotten at his side. In fact, most of his left arm was gone. Gregor gripped the stump of his arm, trying to stop the blood pouring from the wound. His anguished cries reached Flea Bottom, and maybe even Essos, deafening those watching.

            Tyrion withdrew his surprise, a combined metal and wood designed for a single purpose. Something he planned for so long, and only caution paused his hand. Caution that fled him as fear replaced it. Gripping the handle, he limped forward, ignoring the pain in his side from his fall. Raising it up, Tyrion took aim at the metal plate helm Gregor still wore. The Mountain finally noticed him, but the blood kept flowing out of mangled stump. Grasping at his sword, the Mountain used it to stand back up, defying the odds and maybe his own death.

            Tyrion stood his ground, concentrating his sight just past the barrel of his weapon. He pulled the trigger and time froze again.

            Another blast, this one echoed out from his weapon, carried forth a tiny piece of metal at speeds unheard of by men and the Gods. The metal tore through the visor of the Mountain’s helm, staggering the giant man. Those staggers became his death walk, as he fell to the ground.

            The crowd remained silent since the first explosion, and now, even with their bloodlust sated, they remained silent. Tyrion turn his gaze from his fallen enemy to the King’s Hand. Slowly and steadily, he walked, giving no sign of injury despite the ache not ringing through his body. His lungs burned as he breathed. One of his ribs undoubted broken from the shield landing on him. But he would not show it. Not today.

            Tyrion stopped in front of the Hand, spat on the ground, then turned and calmly walked out of the arena. Tywin’s face turned a deep red as the fury nearly roared from him. He cared not of what happened next, as his sworn swords rushed down to his side, a direwolf leading the way.

            Ghost, Jon’s trusted direwolf, stopped in front of him, then moved to his side. Tyrion slide the weapon back into his belt and gripped the white fur with a blood-covered hand. He steadied himself as they walked slowly. “Thank you,” he whispered to the wolf. Ghost nodded, turning his head back to offer his equivalent of a smile before continuing his guard.

            Jon walked off his left while Dusza walked behind him. Their hands rested on the pommels of their weapons, waiting for the Hand to try and deny the win. The crowd parted for them, leaving them space to head back to the quarters assigned to him.

            “We will need to leave quickly,” Dusza said to him as they walked.

            “Appleton secured?” Tyrion asked. Undoubtedly, this stunt angered his family, and both Tywin and Cersei would try to erase him from this plane.

            “It is, and our people are safe,” Dusza said. A beat of silence passed as they walked through the Red Keep. “We…your wife is still missing.” Jon stiffened under the phrase, but he kept his guard.

            “Have our markets keep their ears open,” Tyrion said. His body dragged itself, holding up against Ghost as he walked. His feet heavy, nearly tripping over himself. His confidence fled him now that the fight of his life was over. Not since Jon stood for him at the Vale, defending his honor and his life in another trial by combat had he felt so drained.

            “And you, Dusza,” Tyrion stopped and turned to his sworn-sword. “Your vines?”

            “We must not speak of such things here,” Dusza said, glancing around at the walls.

Tyrion glanced down at the armor Dusza wore. The metal was deep copper in color, changing in the sun, but strong enough to withstand the blows of a weapon. While Ser Jon favored leathers and lighter apparel, Dusza wore heavy armor, hiding herself from the world. “I know what kept you from fighting.”

Her hand reached down to her side. A wound given to her by Joffrey, and unwittingly disrupting her entire body.  “I am healing satisfactory, my lord. It is time for you to do the same.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, but let the conversation die. They managed to get him to his quarters without much fuss. Ghost boosted him up onto the bed, his body flopping against the soft mattress. The red cloth felt like heaven against his skin. Someone must have summoned a maester, not Pycelle, thank the Gods. The maester bent over, pushing and pulling on Tyrion’s bloody skin. Warm rags cleaned him and quick hands removed his armor. Every moment his eyes closed, the maester pinched his side. Tyrion glared in response, finding his sleep more worthy than any healing. The only thing his body desired more than sleep was a glass of wine to wet his dry tongue.

“He will be fine,” the maester finally proclaimed.

“Then leave us,” Dusza said, standing by the open door. The maester scurried away, shutting the door behind him. “We will be ready in two days hence.”

“So soon,” Tyrion asked, closing his eyes as he rested against the soft down pillows. “What if I lost?”

            “Then Ser Dusza and I would be having a different discussion,” Ser Jon finally spoke. Tyrion cracked an eye open to spy Jon staring out one of the windows of his quarters. A scowl covered his face, glaring down at the world, and even now and then that glare flickered over to him. No man argued as loudly as Tyrion’s marriage than Jon, at least in private, but he publically accepted it once there was no escaping it.

            “We will find your sister,” Tyrion said, laying his head back down upon the bed. “Now, relax, and damn the Gods, Dusza, see to it you heal properly. You’re no good to anyone injured.”

            “Yes my lord,” Ser Dusza said. Her heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber. Twisting to look up just once more, Tyrion watched her remove the armor slowly. Practice hands pulled the armor away from her body, revealing the burnt amber bleeding into her underclothes.

            Before she could reveal too much to him, he lost the fight against the blackness, letting the wine slumber him past the pain.  He dreamt of nothing, a thankful reprieve from his harsh reality. When he woke, he found Jon still on his perch by the window. He pushed himself to a sitting position, his head still throbbing from the knock against the stone floor.

            “Wine?” He asked.

            Ser Jon stood from his spot, shaking his head. “No more. Not until you get looked at again.” He glanced back to the window. “We may need to leave quicker than planned.”

            “What…what happened?” Tyrion sat up, gripping his head with one hand. The pounding from earlier subsided, only to be replaced by an ache stabbing at him.

            “Dusza is missing.” Ser Jon’s words forced Tyrion to focus past everything else. He shuffled to the edge of the bed before hopping down. His pistol lay on the nightstand, within reach. He grabbed it, and slipped it into his belt once more.

            “How long?” Tyrion asked. He slide on his boots, tying them as quickly as he could.

            “Four, maybe five hours,” Ser Jon said. “I would have left but someone needed to stay here.”

            Tyrion looked up at Ser Jon, nodding his thanks. For all the hatred Ser Jon held for his family, Tyrion never felt the target, except following his marriage to Sansa. At least he never bedded the poor girl, else he suspected Ser Jon would slit his throat out of principle. Not that he would have. He may be a dwarf, a drunk, and the Imp, but he never slept with the unwilling. He was no rapist.

            “Can Ghost…?” His voice trailed off when he finally noticed the direwolf gone from his room.

            “Aye, we have the scent,” Ser Jon said with a wry smile. “Just waiting on you, my lord.”

            “Best hurry then,” Tyrion said, following Jon out of the room.

            Night fell sometime before he woke, and the dark hallways were now alit with flaming torches. They hurried past closed doors, through the twisting and turning hallways of the Red Keep. Ser Jon led them down to the depth, to almost the same level as the rooms Vayrs used to extract information. They stopped at the bottom of some stairs, finding Ghost growling at a doorway. 

            Jon moved first, slamming into the wooden door with his boot. Wood shards imploded into the room under the devastating kick. He followed in, his sword and axe drawn to attack those who on the otherside. For a moment, he froze, but Ghost lacked suck hesitation.

            Screams of pain and fear echoed out of the room, pleas of mercy joined in as Jon and Ghost tore through the ones on the otherside. He shuffled as quickly as he could, standing at the doorway. From his position, he counted six guards, two on the ground and not moving, one clutching a dire wound at his side, another locked in battle with Jon and Ghost, and a coward running toward him. He could have left the man alive, but as Tyrion raised his pistol, he saw the huddled body of his guard, his friend. Explosive anger filled is body, ready to destroy everything before him.

            “Sir!” The red-coated guard cried out as he stopped in front of Tyrion. He shook in terror, his pants barely held in one hand as the other held

            “Snow?” Tyrion asked, his voice steady as his hand. Jon held the other man at the tip of his sword. “We need one alive, yes?”

            “Aye,” Jon said, pressing his blade harder against the scoundrel’s throat.

            “That one still have his pants on?” Tyrion asked without moving his gaze from the frightened guard. Bright blue eyes teared up as they locked with his.

            “Aye.”

            “Please my lord, I-”

            Tyrion pulled the trigger, ending the sad existence of a man before him. He was a dwarf, a drunk, and a sex-fiend, but he was no rapist. Now, with a hollowed out skull, neither was the guard before him. Immediately, he turned his pistol to the one clinging to life.

            “Bring that one here,” Tyrion commanded, only to be overruled.

            “My sword.” Tyrion turned away to see Dusza gripping her side, amber spilling quicker than it ever should. Her necklace torn away in the guard’s attack, pushing back the veil she wore to protect herself.

            Where a woman of beauty and strength stood only hours before, a mighty tree walked toward them. Her bark marred by their knives and blood stained her ashen wood. Her body exuded a deep red, glowing from within like a flower reaching for the moon and casting shadows in her wake. The shreds of cloth that remained fell aside, leaving her naked in their presence, but none of them could see beyond her eyes. Blood-red eyes glaring beneath vines curving upon her head. When Jon first saw her in truth, he called her the Woman of the Weirwood, a title she preferred infinitely to his label, Knight of the Apples.

            “My sword, Snow,” her voice rasped. Tyrion caught sight of the broken bark around her neck, chipped away by the grasping hands of the rapists already dispatched.

            “She’s an abomination,” the guard on the ground cried out. Tyrion turned back, firing a round into the man’s knee. It shattered in a blast of gore.  Tyrion removed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away the blood on his face.

            “She is a sylvari,” Tyrion spoke softly. “A woman of the Pale Tree. A gift of the Old Gods.” More stories could have passed his lips, but this man deserved none. He would not know of the sylvari’s arrival in Westeros, of their journey from beyond the mists. Dusza remained of their people, a ‘pure seed’ as many called her, for the sylvari faded into the populous, giving up most of what they were for the safety of this world.

He turned back to see Jon handing Dusza her sheathed sword. They must have disarmed her for he had not carried it with him and she rarely let it leave her side.

            She drew the bolt in a smooth motion, a storm contained inside the metal. Lightning arced forth, dancing along the blade as she swung it twice as if to test it and herself. Jon stepped aside of the man he held, signaling Ghost to follow. Dusza took his place, her blade held parallel to the floor as she pointed it to the man.

            “A name, and you live,” she said. The lightning sizzled against the man’s neck, burning him as surely as the torches would have.

            “Please,” he pleaded. She pressed harder, the tip of her blade piercing the man’s weak flesh. The blood boiled against the heat of the lightning arcing forth from her sword. It struck the man, shocking him and forcing him to fight to stay still.

            Her blood eyes never waved. They never danced. They glowed from the depths of the Old Gods. “A name.”

            Tyrion wrinkled his nose as the scent of urine filled the closed room. He glanced back at the bleeding man he shot, finding him slumped over. His chest rose and fell slightly, but not enough to live through the night. He extracted a small amount of vengeance and mercy as he shot the man again. The blast echoed through the stones, but the guard breathed no more.

            “I won’t ask a third time,” Dusza growled. Tyrion stepped closer to her, his eyes searching for something to stem the amber still streaming down her side, but Jon waved him off.

            Ser Jon’s hand glowed an unearthly white for a few moments before he placed them on her bare side. Dusza remained steady, and whatever the guard saw in her gaze forced him to finally answer.

            “The Queen Regent,” the man breathed out. Dusza pulled back slightly, her sword still dancing to pierce the man’s throat. “She-she ordered us to remove you.”          

            “And the fun?” Dusza asked, spitting the word out. Her venomous smile drove her anger through the guard, spiking him to the will. He remained frozen, staring into a horror of his own creating before him.

Ser Jon removed his hands, the glow fading as did the wound on her side. The magic of the Old Gods always amazed him, and rarely had Tyrion the chance to see it in action. When Ser Jon learned it, or started to, the magic flared dully, barely sparking around his hands. Now, with age and practice, Tyrion wondered if he could have managed to heal Jamie’s wound (not that he would ever ask. Jon may tolerate him, even like him, but the rest of the Lannisters could rot as far as he was concerned).

Ghost nudged his master, handing him something. Tyrion caught the glint of the stone, the same color as Dusza’s glow as it passed from direwolf to ranger. She slipped it back on with one hand, her veil falling back in place, or what remained of it. Maybe it wasn’t even a veil at all, just a way for her to slightly alter everyone’s perception of her. Dusza remained tall like the Weirwood, her anger glowing beneath the surface. The shift from bark to flesh remained so slight, only the darkening of her skin indicated the end result.

            Finally, after long tense moments of silence, the man nodded, his eyes flickered between the sword and Dusza. She remained there, and for an instant Tyrion wondered if she would break her word. She finally took a step back, and the room breathed a sigh of relief.

            The guard collapsed against the wall, relief on his eyes. Tyrion stared at the man, wondering if he knew the hell waiting for him on the other side. “Thank you, my –“ His screamed replaced his words as Dusza pierced the man’s groin with her bolt of a sword. The smell of burnt flesh overwhelmed the urine, and the man’s screams echoed out from the room, louder than anything from the short moments before.

            “We need to leave,” Tyrion finally said, breaking the silence. He wanted to check on his friend, offer her kindness and safety. She deserved such and more, but now wasn’t the time. “Ser Jon.”

            “I have made arrangements to go to the Wall,” Jon said, kneeling down to pet Ghost. The direwolf remained keyed up, growling at the doorway and the dead bodies. He paced through the room, passing by each of them before begin to calm under Jon’s touch. “From there…”

            “Do not join the Night’s Watch,” Tyrion said. Ser Jon nodded, understanding his words. There was always a Stark on the wall, but it didn’t mean that Ser Jon needed to forsake his blood, his family for the honor. There were other paths available if you knew where to look. “The Norn, at Holbrek Castle, should welcome you.”

            Nearly ten years ago, when Dusza first introduced him to wonders beyond their world, Holbrek castle didn’t exist, and in those ten short years, another bastion on the wall grew. The Norn appeared around the same time as the sylvari, though in much greater numbers. Large, boastful people, they found welcome arms in the North and the cold, while the sylvari and others fled south, settling in what he helped make into Appleton. The Norn adapted as best as they could to Westeros, but the North welcomed

            Tyrion caught Dusza’s pained eyes as she surveyed the bodies. Her hands gripped her sword, turning ashen under the strain. “The Queen…”

            “Will get what is coming to her,” Tyrion said. He caught the shaking guard’s eyes on him. “We have left the best message for her, and she will know the consequences of this.”

            “What about…” Dusza’s words trailed off, but he knew where her thoughts fled.

            He thought of Appleton, their home for so long. The place where all things had a right to grow.  Where everyone deserved a chance at life, at redemption, at forgiveness. Tyrion received the Lordship out of spite from Tywin, but turned the seat into something to be proud. Something to pass onto sons and share stories about. Even the late Lord Eddard Stark knew of Appleton, and King Robert enjoyed many a barrel of their hard apple cider.

            He thought of the trees filled with shades of red, yellows, and greens. He thought of the greenhouses, protecting the vulnerable growths, aiding them to full ripeness. The harvests and the nurturing given to their plants.

            Tyrion thought of the people, his people. The one’s he swore to protect and save. The ones who saved him. He was not sylvari, norn, or asura, but he understood the need to hide from the glares of the rest of the world. He thought of their faces, every last one of them.

            Mere hours ago, the plan had been to simply leave. Return to Appleton and never set foot in the red Keep again. Now, his sister pushed them too far.

            “Tell them…tell them to unleash the dragon,” Tyrion whispered. Dusza nodded, while Jon turned white as the snow he carried as the name.

            They would head to Esteros, away from here. Jon could keep them appraised on the Wall, of both the realm and the oncoming winter. But he knew Dusza would follow him to the ends of the planet. Even if all it seemed was he hurt his friend.

            “They…we prepared for this,” Dusza said, standing straighter. The fear and pain from the guards’ attack pushed back, hidden behind her vines and leaves. “We knew this day could come. And you…you prevented it from happening much sooner. Gave us a place in the world.”

            “My Lord,” Jon started.

            “I’m not a lord anymore,” Tyrion scoffed. He shoved the pistol back into his belt and tossed his handkerchief down next to the body of the man he killed. “Didn’t you hear? There is no Appleton. Or at least, not by tomorrow.”

            He marched from the room, to find something to cloth Dusza in. There wasn’t much time, and the nearby drapery would have to do. A few short tugs and he freed the cloth from the wall. Other guards would arrive soon, and they’d find the bodies of their own, the lone survivor a scarred rapist. Not that being a rapist would matter. The Queen Regent just needed another to try them, and no doubt Tywin would side with her, despite the amount of evidence against the guards.

            No, they would leave in the night, send word to Appleton, and hope Lady Sansa was safe. Tyrion would have to live with his choices, and hope others could as well. It was his burden as a Lannister, and it seems, the only Lannister who cared enough to carry the burden himself. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't figure it out (or don't know GW2 classes), Tyrion is an engineer and Jon is a ranger. Dusza is based upon my main in GW2 and she is a revenant. If I play a bit more in this world/universe, then I'm going to be adding some more features from GW2.


End file.
